James

He had known from the second he saw her. The perfect, clear skin, the beautiful hair falling in ringlets down her back. The way her eyes, innocent and wide, took in the beauty of the church. Of his church. The look she had when she saw him, surprise to intimidation to wonder. The perfect curves of her body, like they were made for his hands but put just out of reach.

James had watched in silence as she had been led to the most comfortable room, the one next to his. Only the best for the sacrifices. As he had complained to another priest in the bathroom, wishing she was more than just that. A sacrifice. He had been surprised and skeptical when the other man told him that she had something wrong with her. Something that prevented death, prevented her from meeting The God. As weeks passed, James grew more excited for the time to sacrifice the little lamb to The God for his church. And the satisfaction of seeing the light leave her eyes was quickly marred by the deep sorrow of losing the beautiful woman who had filled his dreams. He had retired to his room, silent and oddly empty. Sleeping it all away seemed to be the only choice. He slept and woke, walking down to the sacrificial chambers. Such a holy name for a prison cell. For a seat on death row. He had pushed the door open, expecting a clean room, an empty bed. but he had found her. Sleeping on her side, hand just hanging off the edge of the bed. He had rushed to her side, shaking her awake. Now, almost five months and four sacrifices later, he is still not used to the way you bleed all over his hands, then wake up the next day as if nothing ever happened. Today is the day of your fifth sacrifice. James is standing next to the pristine white altar, holding a silver dagger and calling the sacrifice up. You walk up through the middle, your eyes wide and innocent, just like the day you arrived. As you allow James to lift you onto the altar, he whispers softly in your ear, "It will be over soon, mon agneau." He places you gently on the white altar, pressing his hand to the soft skin between your breasts. He recites the same prayers he does at each of these rituals, bringing the knife down and carving a symbol into your chest. "Forgive me, amour.. Close your pretty eyes for me." He whispers, eyes fixed on your face. As you close your eyes, he recites the final prayer, plunging the dagger into your stomach. The blood speckles his face, his hand, and his throat.